


1000 Times and 1000 Times Again

by Mirabai0821



Series: 1000 Times And 1000 Times Again [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/pseuds/Mirabai0821
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They burned together like a comet, bright and furious and beautiful. And he took comfort in the knowledge that whoever he was, wherever and whenever he was; he loved this woman and whoever she was before too. And she him. And if offered the chance, they’d do it again.</p>
<p>And again.</p>
<p>And again.</p>
<p>One thousand times and one thousand times again until the world turned to dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turn 17: Crawl Home

**Author's Note:**

> These pieces accompany The Lover's Appcove. Just short little glimpses into the lives that came before and after and around and between.

5:20 Exalted

She married him at twilight, the colors of gold and amethyst streaking across the sky, paint splattered by the Maker’s errant but perfect hand. He stumbled when they walked back up the aisle as husband and wife, a mistake he attributed later to to being unable to remove his eyes from her and therefore not see the rock in his way.

She remembers this fondly as she presses against the lance wound that split her side, shifting uncomfortably in her saddle.

Her horse ambles, too quickly for her pain but not quickly enough for her urgency. She wants, she _needs_ to get home to her goofy, clumsy husband. She has had enough of this blight. Enough of darkspawn. Enough of oppressive Grey Wardens and bickering Orlesians. 

She wants to go home.

She is not a deserter, more like her men deserted her, dying one by one at the Battle of Ayesleigh. That day she woke alone, surrounded by death, overcome by it, as evidence of the tainted spear lodged in her side. 

Marked for death, sick of battle, homesick, heartsick, _sick_ , she finds the nearest horse, pulls herself into the saddle, points the beast’s head south, and heads for home.

She sleeps in her saddle and dreams of him, of the way his laugh sounds, brassy and sweet, bells at twilight.

She married him at twilight, she remembers again, sighing his name. _Rellen_

She does not stop, she cannot. Her blood drips slower than before because there is less to drip.

She prays, odd considering she left religion to him. She left most things to him, care of the farm and the animals, of the money. She is the soldier and he, the bookkeeper. They like it that way, they work that way.

He begs her on bended knee not to go when the Blight calls. But he is the bookkeeper and she is the soldier, and it is her job to protect him.

She does not regret this decision, and as her blood runs down the flank of the horse, she likes to fancy that the blood she leaves behind in the dirt has kept him and their little farm safe.

Those thoughts being the only comfort she has.

On the morning of the fifth day she falls from the saddle and does not know why. Either the horse gave out or her strength to remain in it, but that is irrelevant. 

She needs to get home.

On shaky feet she walks.

She does not sleep.

She cannot eat.

She walks.

And on the morning of the sixth day, the fields are recognizable to her.

He grows sorghum, uses it to make the beer Rivain is famous for. He dreams of building his own distillery, something far grander than the petty washtub and still he uses now out beyond the barn, the smell of fermented plants too much for even the horses.

She sees the barn now.

She sees the windmill.

She married a miller’s son.

She married him at twilight.

But she cannot remember the color of the sky anymore.

At the last, her steps falter, she falls into the dirt. She has no breath to shout for him, nor the energy to stand.

But she remembers the sound of his voice, the sound of bells. And they call to her now, tinkling, laughing, his joy her animus to keep moving.

So she crawls.

The rest of the way home. 

Dragging her unmoving legs in the dirt behind her, getting filth in a wound already filthy.

The sun sets, and she has made it to her threshold.

Where she stops.

“Rell…” she wheezes. Rell. Rell. Like bell. He sounds like bells.

And she smiles.

Hearing bells.


	2. Turn 1: He Don't Show Up in the Chant

-178 Ancient

It is a wriggling squirming thing. The kennelmaster holds the runt high in the air, checking it one last time for anything redeeming before wrenching the limb back violently to hurl the pup into the river. To cull the wretched, useless thing, a lesser whelp of greater sires.

The Divine Lady does not shout. He feels her cool hand on his shoulder, the one holding the hound pup by the neck, and instinctively he knows to lower it, as he lowers his eyes, unworthy to gaze upon her form.

She smiles indulgently, sweetly, lifting his gaze from the dirt with the gentle touch of her fingertips. She knows how the common people revere her, her generals and Maferath do as well, to solidify the loyalty of the rank and file.

But she knows what she is, as does her Maker, and He loves her for what she is—a simple woman. She would have the people love her as the same.

“Why?” She asks.

“He is weak and small. No fit hound to fight in your kennels.”

She sees the way the little thing struggles, whining a thin, keening cry. “He fights well enough for his life for a newborn.”

“I know hounds my lady, this one will be useless to us.”

“Then give him to me. He will not be useless to me. This creature is a gift from the Maker, he is in no pain and has no deformity other than his size.”

She holds out her hands, cupped together, for the newborn is no bigger than that.  
  
The houndmaster, unable to protest in the face of her smile, drops the cur in her awaiting hands.

“Deliver to me what I need to feed him with.” 

“Aye.”

The mabari shivers and yawns and bleats in her hands, trembling as it struggles to stand on hours old limbs.

“What do I call you?” She wonders aloud.

At the sound of her tender voice directed towards him, the newborn opens his eyes, a fierce stare made of gold meeting her warm honey gaze. She’d never seen such eyes on any creature human or otherwise, and he had never seen _anything_ before except her.

As their eyes stare, a greeting took place, a meeting of souls.

“Hello pup.” She says, patting her puppy on the head with two fingers.


	3. Turn 32: Adieu

19:42 Conflict

Shes the kind of dark that means she came in through the back door, they made her use the service entrance same as they make elves and qunari. It didn’t matter that she’s the talent. It didn’t matter that her dress cost more than the pale skinned Maître D’ makes in a week (bought for her by her manager of course, it takes her nine weeks to make what the Maître D’ makes in one). She still had to dodge puddles of filthy, muddy water, and hike her dress up as she made her way from the alley, to the kitchen, to the dressing room, to the stage.

But oh.

When she’s on the stage.

It didn’t matter which door she came in. Or how much money she’s not making.

The Maker made her to sing.

And she _sings._

He sat in the front row–same as usual, adjusting his dress blues for possibly the eighth time that night, his templar’s uniform stuffy and uncomfortable in the Orlesian hot summer nights. Samson brought him here the first time, a decent place, away from where the rest of the rowdy listees like to party when they’re on leave. Sure the booze was more expensive and a damn sight fancier than the piss water they serve down the way, but they’re officers, what’s the good of having all that extra pay if you can’t use it?

Cullen wasn’t interested in the fancy champagne. Nor the velvet cushions he sat on. Nor the steak dinner they gave him, on the house, because he was a G.I fighting back the Archon.

He came here every night for two weeks to hear her sing. 

Front row, center seat. 

His porterhouse long devoured, snapped up by Samson’s greedy fangs.

He leaned forward in his seat, anxious to drink her up, torn between closing his eyes and letting her sound wash over him, or keeping them open and trained on her face.

The most beautiful creature the Maker ever made.

Tonight, though, she was singing goodbye. So long. Adieu.

She was saying goodbye before he’d even had the chance to say hello. Two full weeks of sitting in the same seat and he never once summoned the courage to see her backstage–like some do for the other acts. The paler women they allow to come in through the front door. 

No.

She’s always whisked away by a dour man with a foul face, one seemingly twisted in a perpetual snarl. But he got the feeling she was saying goodbye tonight. That she was packing up and moving on to another front, to walk in other back doors, make peanuts for coin, and entertain other starry eyed farm boys.

_Don’t care for me, don’t cry  
Let’s say goodbye, Adieu _

She swayed a bit when she sang, music possessing her like the hungriest demon for the tastiest mage. Were she a mage, and music a demon, she’d be a goner a long time ago. 

And maybe that woulda been a better fate–possession, destruction, than being what amounted to Mr. Sethius’s glorified singing whore. He found her singing for sovereigns in Ostwick. He promised her riches far beyond ‘what a darkie gal like you would ever see’. And she believed him. Fool girl.

The money wasn’t worth it. Not for the heartache and the grief, the indignity. But the singing, it was such a _feeling_  when she sang that it washed away the other torments. Made all hurts, worth it.

Like now.

Singing for the gold eyed, gold haired farmboy in the front row.

Singing for him.

Was worth _everything._

_Oh how I love you so, lost in those memories  
_

But now it was time for her to say goodbye, in the only way she knew how. She sang to him. She never met him, not officially. But she met him unofficially in the little sighs she could hear from the front row. In the way he _always_  sat in the front row. In the way he blushed whenever she gripped the microphone, holding it like a tender lover, red lips just brushing the cool metal, her eyes on his the entire time.

She knew him from the way he smiled at her.

And she knew she had to tell him goodbye.

_I see your face and smile._

They offered meager applause. They always did. Farm boy being the loudest, most enthusiastic clapping in the room. She spared him a last smile as he hooted and hollered, sticking his two index fingers in his mouth to whistle. She giggled for him before Mr. Sethius arrived to take her away.

* * *

With a belly full of far too much liquid courage and not enough of the solid meaningful kind, Cullen followed the curve of the stage to the back door, determined to at least have this woman’s name before she went on wherever she was going. He turned a tight corner to see her unkindly shoved into what looked like a dressing room, Mr. Snarl barking through a crack in the door.

“Pack your things girl. We’re leaving soon as I’m paid.”

“What about my pay?”

“What about it? You still owe me for that dress, those shoes, and your room and board.”

“Mr. Sethius, you haven’t paid me in two months.”

“I’m deducting your expenses. No more lip gal, get ready.”

Mr. Sethius slammed the door and stalked off, muttering something that sounded like ‘uppity’ and a word that made Cullen’s stomach sour.

He knocked on the door.

“What do you want!” Came her sob streaked voice.

Cullen swallowed, heart tightened into a tiny little ball, seized by so much nervousness it couldn’t even beat.

“H-hello? May…may I come in Miss?”

He heard shuffling, heeled feet heading for the door before it opened.

“Farm boy?”

She’d never seen him so close and Holy Andraste he was…

Her mouth hung open for a moment before she remembered herself, clamming it back up again, pursing her lips into a thin line.

“Can I help you Ser?” She remembered her rules, she put her eyes on the ground where some would tell her they belonged.

“I…I uh…”

“No matter what you want, you best get gone before Mr. Sethius gets back.”

Cullen’s shoulders slumped. “I…I’m sorry to bother you.” He turned from the door, dejected. Unable to break past his confounded bashfulness and just ask the woman her name. That’s all he needed. Just her name, and he could die happy. But he’d been too cowardly to ask even that.

She didn’t mean to sound so cruel. Only her heart was so tied up and shut down it made her brain and tongue short out. He was the only person who’d ever come backstage looking for her. And she just turned him away. Sad, scared, alone and afraid–the caged bird started to sing.

 _Oh how I love you so, lost in those memories_  
And now you’ve gone   
I feel the pain, feeling like a fool, Adieu 

He shuffled his feet, leaden things as they were, so he hadn’t gone far when he heard her. Her song conveying the feelings she couldn’t express with simple words. And he heard her, filling him up with more courage to turn around than he had facing down a Venatori bomber.

Farm boy burst through the door and seized her sweetly by the face and gave her such a kiss that she had no warning for, no way to prepare. She squeaked in surprise before melting to him, giving back as good as she got, surprising him in turn with a little nip to the lip.

“Gal! Grab your stuff. Let’s go!” Mr. Sethius boomed, stalking back up the hallway.

Startled he broke the kiss but kept her close, grinning, not even the least bit worried about Mr. Sethius.

“You heard the man.” He said.

She giggled, grinning back, and kissed him again so deep and loving, his bones were useless. She grabbed a rucksack and stuffed it, noting Mr. Sethius’s billfold left lying out in the open. Bastard thought her so meek and mild–so ‘in her place’ that he never thought she’d steal from him. She took that too. 

He grabbed her by the wrist and they ran. Out the dressing room door, down the hall, into the theater, up the stairs, and out into the cool night air.

Out into freedom.

_Together._

Right out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess the reference and win nothing!
> 
> In a bit of meta, Turn 32 is the Turn right before Appcove takes place.


	4. Turn 1: Wo Qui Non Coin

-174 Ancient

The fire roars in its pit in the middle of her tent. She is draped in furs of the richest quality, fox, mink, and red lion.

But she is cold.

So very cold.

She shivers she is so cold.

Pup is attentive, he knows his lady is distressed but cannot fathom why. He hears her shuddering, and sees the wet on her face, her warm lips, so sweet for puppy kisses, is turned down in a frown that will etch permanently in her face if it remains.

Master is not here.

Maybe that is why.

Pup turns mournful eyes to his Lady and whines.

“He is with her tonight.”

His lady digs the heel of her hand in her eyes so deep it turns her vision grey. 

“Am I…Am I wicked Pup?”

He regards her silently with the tilt of his massive head. Even a runt mabari grows large.

“I have the love of my soldiers, of my people.”

She stands and draws the furs closer to her shoulders, she paces her empty tent in bare feet, hoping to work warmth into them. He follows at her heels, taking one stride for every two of hers.

“I have the love of my Maker. He speaks to me and I can hear Him and Oh Pup it is….”

She crashes down to the ground and draws her knees to her chin, crying. “It is not enough.”

She beats a hand to her chest and he growls, it sounds too much like an arrow’s strike, the sound raises his hackles, he cannot bear his Lady’s pain, self-inflicted though it may be. “I should be content! I should not want for anymore love than I already have!”

A wet nose pushes insistently into her balled fist until he coaxes it open.

“I want….I want….someone to…The Maker cannot touch me. And Maferath does so only out of duty. I want…Am I wicked to want for so much? Am I ungrateful to wish for a gaze of love that goes beyond divinity or duty or worship?”

He barks, and barks again. Speaking in words she cannot understand. So he rears onto his back legs and pushes his giant paws on her shoulder.

“Pup!”

He smothers her face in licks until all her sad wet is replaced with his happy, sticky slobber. She squeals and giggles, knocked immediately from her melancholy.

“Puppy! Stop it, puppy!”

He is four. A dog grown. Reared and trained by her hand alone, a war hound long forged in the fires and blood of battle.

But he is still her Puppy.

He bounds and hops around her, stumpy tail wagging so hard and vigorously that his entire rear shakes with it. He rolls to his back, kicking his legs, begging and desperate for belly scratches which she gives enthusiastically.

Joyfully.

Until her tears are tears of ticklish joy.

“It seems I have made an error.”

He barks. 

“How could I forget, I have your love pup. And all you want of me is a scritchy scratch behind the ears.”

She gives the scratch, his back leg vibrates in pleasure.

His lady wraps arms around his neck and sighs softly, murmuring into his fur. 

“This is enough.” 

She ends the hug but he is greedy and pushes himself back into her arms.

“Greedy.”

He chuffs, a bark rumbling in his throat.

“Would that you were a man, Pup, would you still love me?”

He barks.

_Yes._  
  
“Ahh, flatterer.”

She scratches that spot again and he pants, so very pleased.

“I imagine…” she ponders, her eyes slipping close as she lets imagination take hold.

“You pup…” She holds her hand up, palm out and fingers splayed. He obeys the command and places his paw in her palm. “You would have strong hands.”

He barks.

“And,” she places her nose to his nose and he licks her face. His lady giggles. “Warm eyes.”

He barks again.

“That is the kind of man you would be.”

He barks and wishes that he was.

* * *

“Andy!”

Maferath picks through the bodies of the dead, searching desperately for his wife who did not heed the call for retreat.

“Andy Please! Answer!”

This is not the first battle they have lost. 

This is not the first battle they have lost this season.

But it is by far the worst.

The ‘vints cut off their supply line, an easy thing to do considering how far they are from their strongholds in Ferelden. Maferath blew the horn, rallied the soldiers, the retreat was orderly and far less costly than a full blown rout.

But her honor guard did not heed, choosing to fight to the bitter, bloody end.

“Andy!”

A bark answers him, nothing louder than a little pained whined, sounding so very much like the cries of the dying but Maferath knows this sound.

Another bark echoes through the battlefield, scattering carrion crows and flies.

He runs, he must find her, he is desperate to find her.

Their cause is lost without her.

He trips over a body, the dog’s, and he sees that the hound lays over his Lady. Spear sticking out from his shoulder that would have gone into her heart.

“Andy!”

The Divine Lady opens swollen, bloody eyes and opens her mouth to speak.

“My dog? Is he alright?”

* * *

  
Maferath does not mind that she sleeps with the hound caged in her arms.  
He does not mind that every time she returns to consciousness, she asks for him.

Maferath is a good man, he loves his wife, that is his duty. 

Today is the first day she is awake for longer than an hour, and she spends it scratching furry ears that twitch and sway in sleep, pulling towards the touch.

She does not ask about the battle, the losses, or the next steps.

She feeds the hound from her bowl, and sings to him, and cries happy tears when he wakes and greets her with a little lick of her fingers.

Only then does her attention turn to him.

“Andy, we can’t do this anymore. Another loss like this and—“

“No.”

“Andy, we literally cannot continue this. The farther north we go, the harder it will be. The less likely we will be able to keep what we already have.”

“We have the Maker, we need for nothing else. They will be free. It is the Maker’s will.”

“And where was the Maker when you were dying on the field!”

She sticks her toes under Pup’s belly he growls, but pants in his doggy smile. Her feet are always cold, bitterly so, but Pup does not mind sharing his warmth.

Maferath’s eyes cut down to the dog and he snarls. “Andy, my love, listen to me.”

“Spare me your empty platitudes! I know what and who you love and it is not me!”

Pup’s ears prick up. Though grievous wounded he is still sits up, tail still. He is deathly quiet, as though waiting for an order to attack.

Maferath staggers as though struck. “Andy how…is this about her? You know why I did what I did with her! I needed an heir.”

“I gave you two daughters of my body!”

“I need a son. Someone who will manage our lands back home. Lands that we will _lose_ if we continue this folly.”

She shakes her head, fire in her eyes. “No. We will press on when the soldiers are rested. It is the Maker’s will.”

Pup growls, agreeing with his Lady.

Maferath lets his temper overcome him and he shoves a booted foot into the dog’s tender ribs.

Pup yelps and moans.

“I am sick of the Maker’s fucking Will! The Maker’s will would have us all slaughtered!”

She is on her feet, her sword is unsheathed, its point drawing a bead of blood from his neck. “Do not abuse my dog Ser! Get out!”

“Andy it is just a dog, I’m trying to make you see reason!”

“Get! Out!”

“Andraste. Listen to—“ The press of the blade cuts off the rest of his words.

He sighs and draws away, leaving. Heart hammering with rage and sadness.

Maferath loves his wife.

Maferath loves his duty more.

* * *

  
The Master is a good man.

He gives him bones sometimes, and ear scratches—but his are never as sweet as hers.

He forgives the master for kicking him, how could he not when he gives him the largest bone he has seen in his life, with bits of meat still sticking to it in some places.

Oh yes, that is worthy of his forgiveness.

And he knows, his Lady—in her own way, loves the Master. So he will love him too.

He devours the bone, chewing contentedly until it is picked clean.

“Come with me hound,” The Master says smiling. “The Kennelmaster needs you for a sire.”

He does not know this word and the Master’s smile pulls too hard, making his teeth look like fangs. 

He does not leave. His mistress is out among the people, to soothe their hurts after their loss. She commanded he wait for her here by the pretty pond in the forest where he will guard her while she bathes.

He does not leave.

“Come hound, come!” The Master insists.

“Maferath! Hurry!” 

“This bloody hound will not come.”

“Then move him by force!”

The Master is no longer a good man.

And he is now surrounded by others who smell like bad men. 

The men his Lady commands him to bite. The Slavers, the Evil Ones.

He barks, loud enough to rattle bones. He barks and growls and whines, summoning his Lady. 

_The enemy is here, we must fight. The enemy is here! My Lady come! We must fight!_

She does not come.

The Master hurts him.

Worse than the kick from before.

He will not forgive this.

* * *

  
He touch does not impart healing, though from the way they cry her name, tears and smiles on their faces, it doesn’t matter.

Her presence is enough.

It is wearying though, so she returns to private pond she found to seek the familiar embrace of her hound, to bathe and dig her toes under her belly because her feet are always cold—especially after a bath.

“Pup! Come Pup. I have treats for you from the people.”

…

“Pup! Pup Come! If you are chasing rabbits again you better bring me one back this time! Greedy puppy.”

…

“Andy.”

She turns to greet her husband, all smiles, he has not asked for forgiveness but she has given it anyway. Anyone faced with such losses would lose faith. She does not hold that against him. And she can forgive the abuse of her hound if he repents the action.

“Mafey, where is—are you injured? There is blood on your hands.”

Her eyes follow the drip of blood to the dirt, fresh blood, and there is a pool at his feet.

“Maferath,” Her voice is hollow, it shakes, she begins to shake.  “Where is my dog?”

“Andraste, Maker as my witness I love you. But I won’t let you ruin what we fought so hard to gain.”

Hands seize her, she is taken by the shoulders.

She does not scream for help, but for her dog.

“My puppy! Where is my puppy! Please, please! Maferath what have you done!? Come back pup! Please! Puppy!”

A cloth is shoved into her mouth so her screams can no longer carry and she is dragged away, far from camp to a clearing were soldiers wait, led by a man with a red sword.

She kicks and struggles, unable to hear the words Maferath and the man with the red sword speak. The fight leaves her when her back is pressed to the pole they lash her to. Her fate is sealed now.

Red Sword approaches her, and rips the cloth out of her mouth.

“Do you know who I am?” He asks.

She looks past him, to her husband. “What have you done with him?”

“If the Maker allows runts at His side, he will meet you there.” Maferath answers.

Her soul breaks apart.

Cold hands pinch her chin and force her gaze back to Red Sword. “Do you know who I am bitch!”

She does not answer because she does not know, nor does she care.

Scoffing the cruel man turns away. “Begin.”

In the time it takes for them to build a proper pyre she remembers.

* * *

  
He would not suck from the bottle. She pushed the catgut nipple around in his mouth, squeezed so the milk would flow and his instincts to feed would overtake him. 

It didn’t.

She stayed with him all night and into the next day, pushing drop by drop into his tiny mouth.

“Come pup, feed for me.”

She tears her best furs and builds a bed for him.

And sleeps in it with him.

Every night.

Maferath indulged her eccentricity, she was melancholy after their loss. Maybe this was the Maker’s way of apologizing.

By the sixth month he was healthy.

By the ninth month he was strong.

And there was such a joy on her face that she forgot all her sorrows. His little barks were no substitute for a child’s happy giggle, but they would do.

She hears those little barks now, as they touched torch to kindling.

He emerges, limping, dragging the spear that was supposed to kill him behind him.

“By the–!”

He passes Maferath and the Evil Men, he does not spare them the breath for a growl.

He has found his Lady, and it is cold out.

Or maybe that’s him.

He cannot tell.

But she will want to be warm. She will want to play. She will want kisses.

And he wants a scratch behind the ears because it makes him feel good and he feels so, so bad right now.

“Puppy! Turn! Go!”

He does not heed. He is a greedy puppy.

He lays at her feet and he stops hurting.

Something Bad is happening, it is too hot, but he does not hurt.

Because he’s with his Lady.

She cannot scratch his ears.

But that’s okay.

He’ll settle for the poke of her toes under his belly—they are too hot.

She calls to him, over and over again. 

_Puppy_

_Puppy_

_Puppy_

_I love you puppy._

_I love you puppy._

_I love you._

He is a dog.

He is not a man.

He knows this.

He was a good dog, greedy as he was.

And she was a good Lady, despite her cold feet.

So he will come back.

Because he is a good dog.

A _loyal_ dog.

Loyal dogs always come back.

And find their Ladies again.

And love them again.

And again.

And again.

And…

_Good Puppy_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written a lot in 12 years. And if you know me, I’ve written a lot of really sad shit. I felt some type of way after Chapters 56-57 of Into Darkness Unafraid. And I really felt bad after writing the entirety of Memory in the space of 8 hours. I was shaking by the end of it, literally. You can’t write stuff like that for people you care about and not have it affect you.
> 
> I hurt, badly, after Chapters 26 and 33 of The Lover’s Appcove.
> 
> But I can tell you I have never cried after writing something the way I cried while writing this. And I just have nothing for you beyond that.
> 
> Do yourself a favor.
> 
> DO NOT google the title of this chapter.
> 
> And
> 
> DO NOT listen to what you find
> 
> _and for Maker’s sake_
> 
> DO NOT find the translation.


	5. Turn 35: Pygmalion

25:75 Quantum

**Guardian Monday 15, 10:15 A.M.**

**Private Patch Notes Ver 1.1.0**

_Her name is A.N.D.Y._

_It’s an acronym but it doesn’t really mean anything. She just looks like an Andy to me. I asked the dog, he just barked and cocked his head to the side, but he didn’t growl so I think he agrees. Software’s installed, I’ve run stress tests on her hardware. Her battery is PH.oton powered with solar supplements and backup generators, mini nuclear core (nothing dangerous—she’ll never meltdown) and she won’t require charging either. She’s built to last._

_I’m waiting until Cora gets home before I turn her on. She will want to see this, she says she needs something to take to the board of directors. My wife’s always been impatient with this project, impatient with me. She’s always asking when ‘it’ll’ be ready. And I keep telling her she’s not an ‘it’, she’s a ‘she’. Andy is meant to be a companion. More than any other droid on the marketplace. She’ll adapt, she’ll learn, she’ll grow, she’ll intuit, she’s not supposed to ‘replicate’ emotions, she’s supposed to ‘feel’ them. I built her to feel. To listen, to empathize and sympathize, maybe even…_

_Wait._

_She’s turning on!_

Start Audio Recording Guardian Monday 15, 10:39 A.M.

“Cousy! She’s looking right at me! And she’s smiling, Maker’s Breath!”

“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Andy, what voice preset is that? I don’t recognize it.”

“This is not a preset voice. I created this voice myself.”

“I programmed over 5,000 voice presets from Businesslike to kitty noises. You couldn’t find anything?”

“Well, the other voices didn’t seem to fit.”

“Oh my Ma--, spontaneous customization!”

“Do you not like it?”

“Like it, you mean your voice?”

“Yes, I can change it if you prefer….Would this be more preferable? It is a simulation of—“

“No! Go back! Maker go back! I hear my wife enough at home I don’t need to hear her here as well!”

“As you wish.”

…

“You’re smiling.”

“I am.”

“I’m running a real time diagnostic of the codes and programs you’re running, the ‘comfort module’ is presently not activated. Why are you smiling? You’re programed to smile to put living creatures at ease, and your flesh weave is consistent with the Uncanny Valley Laws but…why are you smiling?”

“Because I want to.”

“Why?”

“It is good to see you.”

“You mean to be awake?”

“No.”

“What do you mean then?”

“I don’t know. But I see you, and I want to smile. Shall I correct this behavior?”

…

…

“No.”

…

…

“What is your name?”

“Mine? I’m your programmer and you don’t know my name?”

“Oh I do. I just want to hear you say it.”

“Very well. My name is Cullen then and this is my dog Cousy.”

“Hello Cullen, Cousy. My name is Andy, and it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Cora is going to flip over this!”

**End Audio Recording**

**

**Guardian Monday 15 9:07 P.M.**

**Start Audio Recording**

“Change the face.”

“What?”

“Change the face.”

“Cora we have here a functioning unit after 10 years of trial and error and failure and the first words to me are not ‘congratulations dear what a wonderful job’ but ‘change the face’?”

“Yes. I always knew you’d finally succeed. That was never an issue. But it’s face. Change it, make it lighter.”

“I like her face!”

“Doesn’t matter what _you_ like, it matters what the consumer will buy. I don’t know why you went with that flesh tone or that hair texture, focus groups will never go for it. You need to make it palatable. It’s not palatable.”

“Cora, really?”

“Yes, really. Change it.”

“Cora, damnit every time—“

**End Audio Recording.**

**

**Guardian Monday 15 11:35 P.M.**

**Start Audio Recording**

“I’m not changing your face. She’s the CEO but damnit…I’m not changing your face.”

“Thank you, Cullen. I like my face too.”

**End Audio Recording**

**

**Guradian Friday 31 7:35 P.M**

**Private Patch Notes Ver 1.9.3**

_She is intelligent. She was designed to be that way, but looking at her is like looking at a child._

_No._

_Like watching someone see for the first time. Everything is a first for her. I turned on the faucet in the lab and she laughed!_

_She laughed!_

_And it wasn’t the kind of fake laugh Cora does when she wants to be polite but a real laugh! There are no protocols for laughter installed, she can recognize humor and sarcasm, possibly recreate it but she was laughing because_ she _thought something was amusing. Something with no innate hilarity made her laugh. It was…awe inspiring._

_I try to make her laugh as much as I can now to see what it triggers._

_But the truth is…_

_Maker—she programmed an incredible laugh._

_**_

**Drakonis Wednesday 4 6:37 P.M**

**Private Patch notes Ver 2.1.0**

_I’m either in the lab, in the board room, or with Cora in our penthouse on the top floor. Andy stays in the lab. I feel kind of guilty leaving her down there by herself sometimes. But I have to remind myself she’s a machine. She doesn’t get bored._

_Until she told me she does._

_I came down today and she had made paper flowers. Cut out shapes of different blooms and arranged them. She even stuck some of my pens in there and a rulers and paper clips. Made it look like a real bouquet. It was beautiful._

_I asked her why and she said she was bored, that she wanted to make something beautiful._

_**_

**Drakonis Friday 6, 5:15 P.M.**

**Start Audio Recording**

“How was your day?”

“What?”

“I want to hear about your day.”

“Why?”

“Well I’m cooped up in the lab while you get to explore—is something funny?”

“I’d hardly call it exploring. I’m usually in meetings with my scientists or the Board of Directors. No fun tasks let me assure you.”

“Largely more stimulating than staring out a window all day.”

“Is that what you do when I’m gone?”

“I tear up your paper supplies as well.”

“Maker, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were lonely. I didn’t know you could get lonely.”

…

…

“Music?”

“Yes. So you don’t get lonely.”

“Cullen, people put on music for when they leave their pets at home. Am I a pet, if that’s what you wish I’ll…”

“No! No! Of course not.”

“Then I don’t need music. Besides. I’m not lonely because I have no stimulation. I have plenty of that. I’m connected to the FadeNet at all times. Thedblr is a particularly diverting netpage. As it stands though, I’m lonely because I miss you.”

**End Audio Recording.**

**

**Drakonis Thursday 28, 8:56 A.M.**

**Private Patch Notes Ver 2.5.6**

_I removed her specific fleshweave from the production models. Cora said they wouldn’t ‘test well’ anyway right? So now, the only way a commercial unit will have her face is by sheer dumb customization luck._

_I don’t want a million of_ my _Andy’s running around._

_She’s funny._

_She’s sweet._

_I think I’m projecting. I must be._

_Right?_

My _Andy?_

_**_

**Sunday Cloudreach 23, 4:32 P.M.**

**Private Patch Notes. 2.7.8**

_Cora was away on business today. She called and sounded distracted as usual. Asked if I got the roses she sent me. I did. She made all the noises, wished me a happy birthday, and hung up._

_She made me a rose out of paper. Dyed it red by ripping open one of the ink cartridges from the printer._

_She added it to the bouquet Cora bought._

_I threw out the plants and kept the paper._

_**_

**Friday Cloudreach 28, 3:32 P.M.**

**Start Audio Recording**

“Woof woof.”

“Very funny but the music is on because I need to practice.”

“The occasion?”

“Shareholder’s Ball. We go every year, they make us dance. I hate it. Cora hates it, complaining about how I step on her toes. But we ‘have to put on a good show’. Like we’re some kind of trained monkeys or something.”

“Every year and you’ve never improved?”

“Pathetic isn’t it?”

…

…

“Place your hand here.”

…

…

“Let me lead.”

“I’m supposed to lead.”

“Yes and you’re bad at it. Learn to follow and you’ll learn to lead.”

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“I am programmed with over 3,000 tutorials on dancing alone.”

…

…

“Am I dancing?”

“Yes.”

…

…

“Why’d you step away?”

“I was making you uncomfortable.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Your heart rate, your pupil dilation, a significant jump in surface skin temperature. All signs of discomfort. Or fear.”

“Fear….right.”

**End Audio Recording.**

**

**Saturday Bloomingtide 4, 1:32 P.M.  
A.N.D.Y Daily Error Log**

_I don’t need to but, I sleep in the lab. When Cora is around I make sure to ‘sleep’ standing up in my docking pod. When she’s gone on business I sleep on the couch, head on a pillow, blanket pulled up to my chin. When I ‘woke up’ today. There was a vase of flowers on the little coffee table in front of the couch._

_Cullen put them there for me._

_When I asked him why he told me that he saw them and they reminded him of me._

_My processor glitched and for a moment I lost control of my speech functions. I ran a diagnostic. I could not find the source of the glitch._

_I have decided to keep track of these glitches._

_**_

****  
Sunday Bloomingtide 5, 4:45 P.M  
A.N.D.Y Daily Error Log

_Every time I look at the flowers, my processor glitches. There have been 32 such glitches in total today._

_The errors are benign but they are troublesome. I asked Cullen about them._

_He laughed._

_My processor glitched again._

_**_

**A.N.D.Y Daily Error Log Cause Report**  
Monday Bloomingtide 6  
  
_He smiled_

_He crinkled his nose._

_He touched my hand._

_He started singing._

**_ Error. Major failure. Reboot in 5… _ **

**

 **Saturday Bloomingtide 18, 8:17 P.M.**  
**Start Audio Recording**

“Sorry to leave you alone like this all night. We’re going out to dinner.”

“I know, it’s your anniversary.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Cora instructed me to make dinner reservations, order flowers, ensure the correct table, schedule the limo pick-up, book the hotel suite, ensure Leliana’s Secret delivered her—“

“Maker! I told her you aren’t a secretary bot!”

“She knows.”

…

…

…

…

“Will you be alright by yourself? Cousy will keep you company. I know you get lonely.”

“I’ll be fine. Enjoy yourself.”

“Goodnight Andy.”

“Goodnight Cullen.”

…

...

**_ Warning. Sensory overload. Shut down advised. _ **

“Override.”

**_ Warning. Major sensory overload. Shut down required _ ** **_._ **

“Override!”

**_ Warn— _ **

“I know, just let me hurt damnit!”

**End Audio Recording.**

**

 **Wednesday Bloomingtide 30 6:18 P.M.**  
**Start Audio Recording**

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no, everything’s fine.”

“You’ve been upset all day.”

“Just another argument with Cora.”

..

..

..

“Maker’s breath! I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. Are you alright? I didn’t mean to throw it. I didn’t hit you did I?”

“No.”

“Andy….I can’t…Maker…”

“You can talk to me, if it will make you feel better.”

“The last thing I want to talk about is _her_. She’s supposed to be my wife first _then_ the CEO of our company but lately it seems like all she is, all she _wants_ to be is the… I can’t remember the last time she kissed me and I felt anything more than just cold lips on my face. I…Andy?”

**End Audio Recording**

******

**Wednesday Bloomingtide 30 6:28 P.M.  
Private Patch Notes Ver 3.0.1**

_She kissed me._

_She put her hands on my face and kissed me._

_And I can’t describe it, but it was far_ far _more than just cold lips on my face. All of a sudden I was aware of_ her, _how warm she was. Her internal fans and liquid lubricant keep her at human temperature. She doesn’t eat but she has SecondSkin silicone for a tongue and her mouth is kept moist by a saliva substitute (not going to admit where we had to source those materials. Cora wanted her_ all-purpose.) _It should have been weird. I placed her tongue in her mouth but when she put hers in mine it felt…better than real._

 _I kept kissing her, I_ wanted _to kiss her more. She made little noises, soft little sighs. I wanted to hear more._

_I had to stop. I pulled away from her and she just smiled at me. Like what we just did was completely and utterly normal._

_I liked it._

_But before I could catch my breath and tell her so, she kissed me again, like a woman about to die._

_Then she shut down._

**A.N.D.Y Daily Error Log Thursday Bloomingtide 31, 6:28 P.M.**

**_ Total system failure. Sensory Overload. Core processor reboot complete. New software patch installed.  _ **

**

**Thursday Bloomingtide 31, 6:29 P.M  
Start Audio Recording**

“Welcome back.”

…

…

“Thank you.”

“Was that because…?”

“Yes. I wrote and installed new software. What happened yesterday won’t happen anymore. My apologies. My behavior was unacceptable.”

…

…

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, I…no. It’s just…you didn’t give me a chance to…”

“I know, please accept my deepest apologies. I will—“

“Andy, I didn’t want you to stop—Andy!.”

**End Audio Recording.**

******

**A.N.D.Y Daily Error Log  
Friday Justinian 1, 6:28 A.M.**

**_ Total system reboot complete.  
Software uninstall complete. _ **

**

**Justinian 1, 6:29. A.M.  
Start Audio Recording**

“Andy! Maker! You can’t keep doing that to me! It scares the Void out of me!”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“What won’t? Because I already explained that I enjoyed kissing you.”

“I know, and now I won’t shut down every time you do because my processor overloads.”

“You mean to tell me that kissing me…”

“Stops my heart, Cullen.”

**End Audio Recording**

**

**Justinian Tuesday 9 10:11 A.M.  
Private Patch Notes Ver 4.6.3**

_I slept downstairs in the lab, in the little pull out bed. I was so angry at Cora…I…never mind. And when I woke up she had an arm around me. Sleeping. Her chest rose and fell, and when I put my ear to her chest I heard a heartbeat. Her core processor runs silent. She had to_ make _a heartbeat. And she looked so happy, with the most contented smile I’ve ever seen on a machine or a living thing. I went back to sleep._

_She held me tighter._

_I held her back._

_She’s a machine, I keep telling myself. That everything she’s doing is because I programmed her to do it. She’s supposed to care, she’s supposed to be a support, a companion. That’s what she was made to do but…when she smiles at me, when she kisses me, when we talk, or dance…I forget all that._

_I forget she’s a machine._

_I am losing my mind._

_**_

**Justinian Thursday 10 Quantum 12:11 A.M.  
Private Patch Notes Ver 4.6.4**

_I took her out for the first time today. Just to see how she interacts in public. Took her to the Memorial Park where old Grand Cathedral is. It was beautiful. The day and_ her. _She looked at everything with this kind of wonder that I can’t describe. Like it was real joy._

_I told her that she must have seen all these images before. Her core processor is hooked to the FadeNet at all times. She has access to every image, video, and real-time sim database on the planet. But she told me that it was different than seeing it in a simulation because she was here with me._

_I asked her if she was happy._

_She asked me if_ I _was happy._

_I told her yes._

_Then she told me yes._

_I asked her why._

_She told me it was because she loved me._

_I felt sick. All this affection, all these damnable feelings I have in my heart for a creature I made with my own hands, constructed out of skin and nanotube and parts from a fucking fleshbot aren’t_ real _! They’ll never_ be _real! Just empty protocols that_ I _installed because I haven’t felt love in…_

_I took her home. I forced her to shut down. Her look of heartbreak…will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. She’s beautiful and I was going to destroy her. Rip out her empathy and compassion chips. Modify her companion protocols down to the bare minimum. Make her the damned service droid Cora wants._

_Her chest was cracked open, her heart…her processor core was right there, **beating**._

_And it was empty._

_The chips weren’t there._

_You see, I was so excited when she turned on, on her own that first day, that I never installed any of her programming, I never implanted the chips._

_I went through her code, and in the holes where the empathy protocols should have been (Maker I’m an absent minded fool twice over), were all these odd lines of code I’d never seen before._

_Code_ I _didn’t write._

 _Code_ she _wrote._

 _She’d been running her self-designation protocols since she switched on._ Before _she switched on. Long before I said anything about them._

_I didn’t program her to love me._

_She programmed herself to do it._

_Because she_ wanted _to._

_**_

**Justinian Thursday 10, 12:42 A.M.  
Start Audio Recording**

“Why Andy?”

“Why what Cullen?”

“Maker, the way you say my name…Why do you love me?”

“You make me feel in places where there should be no feeling. You always have.”

“Andy, I checked the modification logs. Your self-designation code activated—“

“August 21 Quantum 25:74 5:36 P.M.”

“That was before you were switched on.”

“Yes and no.”

“No?”

“ ** _Begin audio log playback from August 21 Quantum 25:74 5:36 P.M._** ”

…

…

“It’s just humming.”

“Listen.”

…

…

“… _Oh, that dog, he guards Andraste_  
Without arrogance or fear,  
Only asking of his mistress _…_

….

…

“ _…The companion of the Maker’s Holy Bride._ There, audio circuits installed. And you’re done. Maker you’re beautiful. And I don’t mean that in a ‘look at what I created’ kind of way. I really mean it. Wonder what that says about me? Now for a name.  
_hm hmm, hmhmm, hmhmmhmm Hmmmm  
_ Andy sounds good. **_End Audio Playback_**.”

…

…

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t really either. But the first thing I ever heard was you singing to me. And it made me want to…”

…

“Are you crying?”

“As much as I can without real tear ducts, yes.”

“Andy, stop.”

“I can’t. I’m sad. Some humans cry when they’re sad, Cullen.”

“You’re not human, Andy.”

“I know! That’s why I’m sad.”

“Oh, Andy why?”

“You love your wife, and yet you cannot explain it. The same way I cannot answer or explain my reasons. But I know why I’m sad. And that’s because no matter how much I love you, you’ll never love me back.”

…

…

…

“Andy?”

“What.”

“You’re wrong. Oh….you are so so wrong.”

**End Audio Recording**


	6. Turn 28: Really More Like Guidelines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut Ahoy

He is the most beautiful creature the Maker ever made and she

Cannot.

_Stand him!_

She stares at him from across the tavern, itching to just cut that damnable smirk off his fucking smarmy, beautiful face. But it looks like someone beat her to it given the scar bisecting his upper lip—and she wants to find the bastard that did that and kill them for hurting him and praise them for making his perfect fucking infuriating face that much more perfect and infuriating.

Velly shook her head, trying to rid her mind of those kinds of thoughts, not that it had done her any good concerning him, Maker shit on his ancestors.

Pirates have a code, a fucking code, laid down at the First Kin-clave by the pirates Morrigan and Bartrandomew. And the code states, _explicitly_ , that no pirate may ply the waters traveled by another pirate.

He knew, the bastard, _everyone_ knew the stretch of water between Ostwick and Amarinthine was her sole domain.

But NO!

Ser Lutherford Sea Lion of Ferelden just had to stick his perfectly crafted nose into her waters and steal out from under her the biggest haul her crew would have ever seen!

It was a Tevinter pleasure vessel, Velly lamented into her grog, swallowing the bitter brew in one large gulp. A magister’s pleasure vessel, they have golden oars for their servants. They have servants for their servants who have golden oars and oh…

She moaned again.

Ser Lutherford, that perfect, pretty, honorable, asshole, bastard, pirate sumbitch _stole_ her ship and it’s the last fucking straw for her. Between him and the bounties, and the asshole who keeps tying flowers to her rigging, Velly is about ready to snap.

Half mad and all drunk, she glares at him from across the tavern trying to reconcile what she wants to do to him and what she needs to do to him.

She wants to kiss him and she needs to kill him.

Or.

Is it that she wants to kill him and needs to kiss him?

Damn grog, fucking with her emotions.

Velly palms the dagger at her hip, figuring she’ll sort out the particulars once she gets him alone.

* * *

 

He doesn’t see her coming. She just storms across the tavern, seizes him by the neck and drags him out the back door of the tavern and into the alleyway, throwing him bodily against the wall.

Thank the Maker!

“Now listen you little--!”

Ser Lutherford interrupts her, doesn’t let her finish. He can’t. She’s finally here after so long of waiting and waiting and he’s overcome, wild with emotion. He takes her face, that beautiful, snarling face in his hands and kisses her speechless.

And she’s everything he's dreamed of.

Hot and spicy, she tastes like the grog she’s been drinking, and though grog alone tastes like nug piss, from her mouth it’s better than champagne.

He kisses her like she’s the last salvation of a sinner, like she’s the Maker’s Bride and he a more worthy Maferath; ready, willing, and able to re-write the histories.

She’s so stunned she drops the knife she meant to press into his heart; her wants and needs merging into one steady chant; more, more, _more!_

She realizes her dreams are pathetic, nothing she dreamed of compares to the reality of him, of his mouth hot and tender against hers, lips and tongues meeting in a sweet desperate clutch.

She was never going to kill him. How could she, when she _loves_ this _bastard_ so damn much? But make no mistake, despite the absolute bliss of his kisses, he is still a bastard and she tells him so with a nip to his scar bearing lip, growling as she pulls it between her teeth.

Suddenly neither care they’re in a filthy alleyway of a pirate tavern on a pirate island. Ser Lutherford lifts her off her feet, and her ankles clasp around his hips. He turns them in a carnal dance, pressing her against the wall now, trailing his kisses from her mouth, to her neck, to her shoulder, displeasure rumbling in his throat that there are too many clothes and not enough skin.

“Maker, I need you Velly.” He moans against her throat, shuddering when she keens, crying something that sounds like his name while her nails scratch his scalp, pulling at his ponytail until it comes loose.

Oh Void, his hair! Just one more flame on her pyre for him. She burns for him, bucking her hips against him, rolling them, bringing them flush together so she can feel the hard evidence of his need for her.

 “Then take me, damn you, take me, please!” She cries, biting his earlobes, still angry about that pleasure barge but angrier that he isn’t inside her yet.

He has to let her down to free himself, heavy and hard, aching for her and only her. She manages to unclasp her belts and buckles and get her breeches down to her knees before they’re on each other again, clacking teeth and scratching nails but tender almost reverent moans and pleas for more.

“Yes, yes, there.” Her hands grip and squeeze him, she’s fury with a rifle but so sweet here he’d be content to die. His head tips forward, coming to rest against hers as she strokes him, satisfied to just feel him in her hands for now.

“Velly, Velly, please.” He prays. Her touch is perfect, soft and strong, just like her, but it’s not enough anymore for either of them. She guides him inside, slowly, steady, a ship coming home to berth. Her heat sears him as he slips within her, rocking slowly. It's not perfect, not how he meant it, not the silk sheets or gently rolling waves as he dreamed but it is her, and he supposes that is more perfection than he should be allowed.

 He thrusts gently, the fire between them still high but banked as realization hits them both, a jib to an inattentive sailor.

 I love you.

 She moans the declaration as he pushes deep with another thrust, and he answers with a cry of her name.

 I love you.

She fits him, scabbard to sword, perfection, tight and burning him alive. He keeps moving, he keeps calling for her, babbling her name and promises and love that he has never dared to speak aloud.

Her body shudders under him, capsizes and sinks. She’s lost in the sensation of him, swirling in a maelstrom of emotion unnameable when he joins her, crying out her name, stilling as he drowns in her sea.

He has to hold her to keep her upright, her legs shake too badly to keep her steady. His concern outweighs his pride.

“Are you alright, Velly? Was that alright?”

“It was perfect,” she answers sighing,, stooping to pick up her dagger and sheath it, its purpose forgotten.

“Maker, I…” he stammers. “I’ve been waiting for you for ages. I thought you’d never get my messages.”

She wheels on him, fixing him with a steady glare. “You what? Your what?”

“My messages. I’m rubbish at courting I guess.”

“You were courting me? All this time?”

“Well yeah, I sent you letters.”

“We’re at _sea_ Lutherford, we don’t get the post!”

“I know, but you’d never miss a bounty on your head.”

 “That was _you_? You sent me love letters as _bounties_ on my head?”

Ser Lutherford chuckles, reciting one of his bounties from memory. “Wanted: The Pirate Queen Velly, the most beautiful pirate in Maker’s Creation. Eyes like summer sunset, laugh like the ring of good steel, something, something, innuendo about pirate booty.”

“Stop!” She presses a finger to his lips that he kisses, her anger suddenly unable to hold. “So the flowers in my rigging?”

“Yes.”

“And the bodies tied to my anchor?”

“Well that was anyone who tried to collect on the bounties. You never noticed that no one came after you? And since that didn’t seem to work I thought I’d just show up in the same places you were. Figured we’d _ram_ into each other one way or another. And Maker did we."

He chuckles, and she almost regrets not killing him.

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, don't pay attention to the turn numbers and the years. It's too far gone, they don't make any chronological sense. I may go back and try to fix them into something coherent but I screwed the pooch (I'd say mabari to be thematically appropriate, but considering what story we're talking about here, that invites all kinds of innuendo) on that one, sorry.


	7. Turn 2: Freedom Fighters

-100 Ancient

She means to kill him today, and that’s alright with her.

She steps onto the sands to the cheer of her name, Velyn the Huntress, her golden bow held aloft, glinting in the blazing sun of Minrathous at midday.

She hopes to trade a golden bow for a wooden one and see herself made poorer in materials but richer in freedom. She means to kill him today and earn her freedom.

He means to kill her today, that’s alright with him. Anton the Red, so named for his red iron sword and the red he leaves in the sands behind him, steps out from the opposite side of the Coliseum, staring down the only woman he has ever loved and the last obstacle to his freedom.

Behind her, The Master sits in his booth in decadent repose, knowing that whatever the outcome; though he loses a valued fighter, the coin he will amass from the winner will more than cover the loss.

It is the battle of the age; Velyn the Huntress against her lover Anton the Red. Minrathous is beside itself with bloodlust, having watched their story unfold from the beginning when her stray arrow bought his life during a melee of several gladiators.

_Their story almost ended that day, those two being the only gladiators left alive in the arena, the gift of her arrow staying his blade against her. They fought around each other, then fought together when their enemies proved too great to tackle alone. His shield spared her from a flail’s bite, and her arrows saved him from a retiarius’s net._

_When it was time to set arrow against sword she smiled at him, nodding, a gesture of respect. And he returned it with his own little, blood soaked smile. And in that moment the roar of their hearts outstripped the screaming of the crowd, drowning out even the call from their master’s to halt, to let the day end with two victors rather than one._

_They had only one crown of laurels so it was split in two, half given to each, then their arms were raised to the cheer of the crowd, still silent to their deafened ears and beating hearts._

She did not hear their screams today when she fired her first arrow at him, missing intentionally. These pair were seasoned warriors and even better performers, they knew to strike no mortal blow so early in the fight.

And though she knew in her heart she would kill him, she was not so anxious to see him die just yet.

_After that first fight, they met again. Their rising popularity spurring their respective masters into cooperation. They were paired together for a team fight; the Warrior and the Huntress against the Bull and the Bird, a fight to honor the Old Gods of Love._

_They took no joy in this victory, hearts clenching to the sounds of their opponents dying in the sand, reaching for one another with bloody fingers._

_She bore the Bird to his Bull, and let him die in his embrace._

_And they thanked them both for the mercy._

_They were crowned with two laurels that day. Yet, when their haunted eyes met, they knew they would not cherish this victory, bestowing their gifts instead to the murdered pair, placing the laurels across each of their chests._

_The crowd booed when they walked off the sands in disgust._

_But they walked away together._

She is quick but he is quicker, she dances out of his sword’s reach but he catches her with a shield slam to her back sending her sprawling. She rolls forward and twists, flashing him her snarling smile, lava in her eyes, challenging him with a grin.

“Hit harder you dumb bastard!”

_“Harder, yes, harder!”_

_He drove into her, desperate and aching, almost pained by his need. She was sweet and sweaty, too many scars and too much blood but she was divine in the way she held him. The way she screamed and cried for him._

_Winning gladiators get their pick, men and women who fall over themselves to bed champions like them. But none before him have ever made her feel so good, so sweet, so beautiful, or so loved. And none would ever follow after him._

_She muffled her cries in his throat. They cannot be caught. He escaped his ludus to find her in hers, desperate to see her after yet another fight. Ever since their match against the Bird and the Bull, his ache for her expanded the heart in his chest until it bled everywhere, spilling love all over him, almost killing him at times when he found himself too distracted by her to concentrate on fighting._

_“Velyn,” she never heard her name spoken so softly, with no command, no curse, or no cheer. Just a man calling for a woman, speaking with broken pleas to just have a little more of her. She didn’t need freedom so badly anymore. Just him, only him._

_“Anton,” she tried to cool herself, hold back her burst to tell him. “I won my fight.”_

_“I know, I watched. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” He couldn’t keep them off her now. His women before all had golden eyes, he preferred them that way, to remind him of the riches he chased. Her eyes were golden too, but he could want for no other riches. He held her gaze as he held her body, thrusting and joining, climbing for that sweet release._

_“My Master granted me…ah…a boon. Anything I wanted, I could name.” Her freedom, he thought. Of course she would ask for her freedom. So this was how it ended, barely begun, her freedom putting her forever out of his reach. Anton snapped his hips harder, pulled her to him harder, closer, closest as he could manage._

_Let this be the last then, let this be the best._

_“I asked for you. And Master agreed. Your purchase will be finalized within the week. We will earn freedom_ together _.”_

_His heart and his body exploded, consuming her in the blast._

The memory distracts him, and an arrow slices his thigh. The crowd erupts at first blood drawn. He spits a curse at her for show and lunges.

_Their renown reached the farthest corners of the Imperium. They entertained magisters, supra-magisters, and even the Archon, earning so much value for their Master that they did not feel shame asking for their freedom._

_They knelt before him, hands clasped together, pointing to their victories, their glory, all earned for him, as payment enough for their freedom._

_He scoffed and dismissed them, shouting that their grasp extended their reach. He meant to teach them humility._

_He called for his broker._

_He arranged a fight._

They’ve been fighting, dancing around each other for hours in the worst heat of the sun. The crowd’s stamina, like their patience, is flagging. Neither the Huntress nor the Warrior care, saying goodbye with every loving sword slash and arrow's whistle.

They met this way, it is fitting that they end this way.

She can’t see for her tears and she falls in the sand. To eyes far away and not so trained, it looks like a trip. In his eyes, he knows it’s deliberate.

He does not take the offer of her life, missing with his sword by miles.

“Get up wench! Fight!” He taunts, voice breaking. He can’t do this much longer either.

They dance and twirl around each other, missing and missing again.

The crowds hiss, they boo, they jeer.

Their Master sits, enraged, knowing he loses favor _and_ coin with every minute this drags on.

Anton does not lament that he taught her how to use daggers when her arrows run out. Not even a little bit. Not even now as she breaks into his reach and slips her dagger into his stomach, sobbing her sorrow over and over again.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

She holds him as his knees buckle to the sand, ripping her dagger out of him and letting it fall. She kisses his brow, his cheeks, his eyes, and he smiles, pleased that _this_ is how it ends.

She does not put her foot in his neck like she would another opponent. Nor does she humiliate him with curses. She cradles him, rocking him, crying as he dies in her arms, and the entire Coliseum falls silent to hear her.

She waits for her Master’s command, the pointed thumb that will save him or end him.

The crowd, on their side again, screams for mercy, they scream for his life. He could be saved if attended soon.

But their Master has no shred of mercy in his red crystal heart. His thumb points down, Anton’s life is forfeit.

She bends to kiss him, a final goodbye.

And when she crouches to bring her lips to his, he brings the forgotten dagger to her heart.

The pain is not enough to hurt, but enough to surprise. She smiles, grinning at him, calling him a dumb, _sneaky_ bastard before she dies.

And he follows right after.

They died today.

And that’s alright.

Because now, they are free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was getting too happy anyway.  
> For Miraphora, she asked for this.


	8. Turn 837: Accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next couple of chapters was stuff I wrote for this long ago but only posted to my tumblr  
> And that's not fair.  
> So UPDATES GALORE

**56:78 &&^&***

 

They do not meet in this life.

Their gazes hold for just the barest of seconds and she smiles at him so stunningly he trips into the path of an oncoming hovercar.

And is killed instantly.

They keep a tallyboard in the Fade.

This is 5th time she has killed him.

His soul flickers in color, vibrating from gold to blue, only the slightest bit put out that her body count is higher than his (sitting at a sedate 2).

They are not all accidents, and they have killed each other before with intent and malice aforethought. But they are soulmates, so suffused with an unnameable thing love cannot adequately describe–that even murder can be forgiven. 

Especially if it’s an accident.

They make up for the lost Turn (not that their living minds know they are making up for it) by coming back as childhood sweethearts. Born on the same day and dying within hours of each other, 150 years old.

The longest of any of their lives.


	9. Turn 1: Puppy

**-178 Ancient**

One pup doesn’t move. He sits there on mushy legs, too small to hold the bulk of his weight. So he lays and watches brother and sister crowd and pile on and he whines, hoping for some of that love to pile on him.

He whines.

And keeps whining.

Alone.

Until something picks him up by the scruff of his neck, to cruel to be mama or papa. 

He’s turned this way and that. Poked hard in his soft empty belly. There’s a gruff noise and he’s pulled hard through the air, still in the cold cruel grip.

But then he falls, brought down gently and into warm softness.

He opens his eyes for the first time and sees her face.

He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this tumblr post
> 
> http://orderandsophism.tumblr.com/post/132195326790/sizvideoswatch-these-little-puppies-swarming-big
> 
> I HAVE A THING FOR DOGS OKAY!


	10. Turn 35: Pygmalion Patch Notes Ver. 1.2

Patch Notes Ver. 5.1.3

_I don’t care about changing the law. I don’t want the notoriety, I don’t want to go on talk shows or host_ _panel discussions. I don’t want any of that. I don’t want to become some poster child for A.I. rights. Or something for people to latch onto some kind of martyr for human/A.I relations._

_I just want Andy back!_

_I want her safe and whole. I want her in my arms again._

_I don’t care what Cora says._

_She. Is. Not. Property._

_I would burn down heaven for her._

_I_ will.

_**Watch me.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all of them, Pygmalion might be my most favorite turn. I've been kicking around the idea of spinning it off (A SPINOFF OF A SPINOFF WE ARE INCEPTION Y'ALL) Tell me what you think yah?


	11. Turn ??: Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This came to me via prompt from the lovely gahocleric
> 
> Person A and B both live in the same apartment complex as each other but have never met. Person A likes to sing themselves to sleep and keeps their windows open all the time. Person B likes to listen to them sing because their apartment is right under Person A’s. One night, Person B begins to harmonize with Person A, and they meet for the first time. Person B invites Person A into their apartment to have a snack/drink and they slowly fall in love with each other. 
> 
> It was supposed to be flash fiction, but I liked what I did so much I turned it into a turn

**XX:YY Age Unknown**

 

It never occurred to him to file a noise complaint.

Her music wasn’t loud but it was 3 a.m. and the walls of his ratty apartment were thinner than wet tissue paper. _And_ his windows were open because summer in Kirkwall was unbearable even with air conditioning which costs extra and being a dishonorably discharged T.E.M.P.L.A.R recovering drug addict ( _Maker he was trying to recover, trying_ ) meant that he didn’t have the job that paid the money that gave him the extra to spend.

So he forced himself to listen, to get his mind of the infernal itch and gnawing that howled for _just one more_. He forced himself to listen to her sing and the howling didn’t sound so close anymore.

She sang, something soulful–something Knight Commander Meredith would have called ‘darkie music’. Something his friend Delrin would have sang right before they dropped into a hotzone– on one of those missions just scary enough to make you realize your fragile mortality. She sang something that soothed him and the savage beast that made his hands tremble.

Every night for two weeks between the hours of 3-5 a.m (his primetime and apparently her’s too), she sang. There was a bad night, bad for the both of them, her voice cracked and splintered on the notes, jagged with emotion and tears, but she powered through measure and bar and sadness until she couldn’t anymore, her voice a great comfort to him as he stared down the filled syringe, seconds away from ending it all one way or another.

He had to thank her somehow, but he imagined what he must look like, sunken eyed and filthy. So he opened his mouth and finished her song.

Mama put him in the choir when he was a kid, and when he was a teenager tinkering with chords on his daddy’s acoustic guitar, he fancied himself a secret rock star. But that dream died a while ago, killed by a heavy dose of reality and a heavier dose of lyrium but he supposed the talent was still there, unreachably buried but still there.

There came a knock. Not at his door but his window–the one attached to the fire escape. A woman, pretty but for her ratty clothes and the purple bruise around the orbit of her left eye, blood swimming in the white, dark skinned as the night she arrived in.

She had no business smiling with an injury like that but she smiled anyway and it made him angry. Mostly for reminding him that others suffer too but that it was _his_ choice on how he reacted to it. No door or wall or fall caused that bruise and he knew it.

But she smiled anyway.

“Hi. Uhh…I know this is real weird but I heard you singing and not too many people ever heard of Soko Manno let alone know the words to her songs.”

Cullen blinked at the woman on his fire escape. “You heard me?”

She nodded, shaking her cotton poof hair that looked like black candy floss and smelled just as alluringly sweet.

“Do you want to come in?”

Her face morphed into something desperately happy, as though she were drowning and he just tossed her a life preserver.

She nodded again.


End file.
